Leslie Glass - A Killing Gift

April glanced up and saw Frayme all alone. He was checking his watch, tapping his foot. He had to pee.

"He's been unhappy for an hour," Mike said.

"What else?"

"Let's see. The dean of the social work school remembers meeting the alumni people. She says that Baldwin pretty much nodded through it, and Al Frayme was in and out of the room."

"Clearly not to pee."

"Maybe not. Crease doesn't know either of them well and understood from the get-go that they were not interested in helping her out. Social work is pretty much the bottom of the food chain. There are plenty of students who want to do it, but the field doesn't bring in research, state, federal, or private money. No one wants the poor, the addicted, the homeless, the mentally ill. I got the whole litany. She's a desperate woman."

"So you have nothing."

"Well, maintenance doesn't clean private offices, and there was no scheduled work on the floor that day. We went in and dusted the phone. It had been wiped. We checked the desk, chair arms, doors, and doorknobs and lifted a bunch of prints just in case. Do you have Al's prints?"

"Yes, he parked them all over his water bottles. We're running them. What else?"

"The boys down in the Fifth do not have Frayme on anybody's dojo list. But he has to be training somewhere. He has to be sparring with somebody. You don't do this alone. It's a partner thing, like tennis. Since his own name hasn't come up, I'm guessing he has an alias for this aspect of his life, maybe a code name. We're getting a poster made up now. I have Hagedorn checking on his background."

The sandwiches came. April took a few delicate bites, then gave in and gobbled. When she'd finished half of it, she shifted to Baldwin's input.

"Frayme was a classmate of Birdie's. We can try him with that. Maybe she blew him off back then, and he nursed a grudge. Maybe she blew him off again with the money, and this time he couldn't take it. Baldwin said Al's a schmoozer, not a closer. He was passed over for Baldwin's job three years ago."

"A loser, then! That would play." Mike reached for her uneaten French fries.

Frayme got up and pounded on the door. "I need to fucking urinate. What do you want me to do, piss on the floor?" They'd reduced him to begging.

April and Mike slapped each other five.

Jason left his institute strategy meeting early. The eight committee members had been contentious and nonproductive as usual, and the prospect of police work was far more exciting. He had plenty of experience evaluating new patients for himself and the institute. He'd worked in psychiatric hospitals, and occasionally did family and marital counseling, although couples therapy depressed him because the sessions were bitter and it was sad when people had to break up their homes. The occasional opportunity to do some forensic psychiatry was a bracing treat.

He made his excuses to his colleagues, grabbed a cab, and headed downtown, relishing the prospect of being on task in a dirty police interview room. With all those cops around, he got a testosterone high, almost as if he were one of them. And suspects were a pleasure to work with. Unlike patients, he had no loyalty to them and didn't have to stick to the truth. Whenever he had the opportunity to help nail a killer, he always felt like Bogey in a trench coat. His job was just to catch them out. It was a real nice change from having to cure them.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the Sixth Precinct, it looked familiar somehow, but he didn't know why. A lot of people were gathered there. Even at nine-fifteen it felt as if he had to push through a hundred individuals carrying guns to find April and Mike.

He made his way upstairs and through the crowded detective unit.

When he opened the door to the CO's office, where Mike and April were presently camped, Mike looked happy to see him. "Hey, Jason, thanks for coming in so late. We appreciate it. Close the door, will you?"

"No problem. I'm happy to help." Jason shut the door and relaxed. His own day was over, and for a moment he considered loosening his tie. Then he remembered that everybody here was still on duty and abandoned the idea.

Mike stood and stretched his arm across the desk to shake hands. "You're looking good. How's life?"

"Couldn't be better. You?" Jason got his second hug from April in two days, a reward for coming in.

She didn't speak, but her eyes said it all. Thanks. He sat down in the chair next to her, basking in the warmth. "Okay, I gather you want an evaluation. That's a relief. I'm not a profiler."

"You'll do."

For the next half an hour they filled him in on the case, discussed April's buddy theory involving the mystery man with the dog who'd been on the scene in both cases. Then they blocked out areas of interest they'd like him to cover with Frayme. Jason was a fresh face on the scene with a new role to play.

A few minutes after ten he entered the interview room, where Al had been getting his first taste of the business end of criminal law enforcement. As on previous occasions Jason was shocked by the grunge.

The small room, like so many others of its type in precincts all over the city, didn't appear to have been cleaned in some time, but maybe the mess had only accumulated since morning. It smelled of sweaty feet and spoiling food. The wastebasket overflowed. Plastic cups littered the floor. Some coffee had spilled out of one of them and not been cleaned up. There was graffiti on one wall: Cops are dicks -a bit of poetry that no one had bothered to erase. The lack of amenities was meant to intimidate, and it did. Jason took a look at the suspect and pasted on a smile.

"Mr. Frayme. How are you doing?"

Al was in a position of repose. His head with its light-colored hair was cradled in his arm on the table. He didn't bother to acknowledge the new visitor by lifting it up.

"I'm Dr. Jason Frank. I'm a psychiatrist," Jason added.

Then the head came up. If he'd been dozing, he was wide-awake now. "Are you a cop?" he asked.

"No." Jason laughed comfortably.

"The FBI?"

"No, no. None of the agencies. I've had a request to make sure everything is on the up-and-up. I'm neutral."

"Did the university send you?" Frayme said hopefully.

"I'm not at liberty to say. But I do want you to know I'm here to protect your interests. Are you having any problems you'd like to put on record?"

"Yeah. I was kidnapped out of my office. A fucking SWAT team-excuse my French-took me out right in front of my boss. It was humiliating. I've been cooped up here for ten hours, prevented from doing my job. They won't let me pee or call in. You are a cop, aren't you?" He eyed Jason warily.

"Absolutely not. Do you need to go to the bathroom now?"

"No," Frayme replied angrily. "Before. I had to go before."

"Are you comfortable now? Do you need anything?"

"I need to get out of here. I need to get back to work."

"Well, the workday is over now; you don't have to worry about that. But maybe I can help get you home."

"Why doesn't the university send a damn lawyer? They have a whole fucking law school-excuse my French." He said it automatically. "They could get me out of here in a snap. You know the FBI is here, too. It's been crazy."

"I understand where you're coming from. But you seem like a reasonable guy. You know what they're up against. This is an important case." Jason pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Well, I am a reasonable guy."

"That's what I heard. You're a reasonable guy, and the police are interested in you. You know what that means, right?"

"A dozen fucking cops and FBI agents tried to confuse me about the facts of my own life. Excuse my French, but do they think I'm stupid?"